Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.
Daisy is Obstinate.
“A lungeing villain,” muttered Joe Banks to himself, “he knows nowt but nastiness. Strange thing that a man can’t make up to a pretty girl wi’out people putting all sorts o’ bad constructions on it. Why they’re all alike—Missis Glaire, the wife and all. My Daisy, too. To say such a word of her.”
He hastened home, filled his pipe, lit it, and went out and sat down in the garden, in front of his bees, to smoke and watch them, while he calmed himself down and went over what had gone by, before thinking over the future.
This was a favourite place with Joe Banks on a Sunday, and he would sit in contemplative study here for hours. For he said it was like having a holiday and looking at somebody else work, especially when the bees were busy in the glass bells turned over the flat-topped hives.
“I’d no business to hit a crippled man like that,” mused Joe; “but he’d no business to anger me. Be a lesson to him.”
He filled a fresh pipe, lit it by holding the match sheltered in his hands, and then went on—
“Be a lesson to him—a hard one, for my hand ain’t light. Pity he hadn’t coot away, for he put me out.”
“Now, what’ll I do?” mused Joe. “Shall I speak to the maister?”
“No, I wean’t. He’ll speak to me when it’s all raight, and Daisy and him has made it up. I’ll troost him, that I will; for though he’s a bit wild, he’s a gentleman at heart, like his father before him. Why of course I’ll troost him. He’s a bit shamefaced about it o’ course; but he’ll speak, all in good time. Both of ’em will, and think they’re going to surprise me. Ha—ha—ha! I’ve gotten ’em though. Lord, what fools young people is—blind as bats—blind as bats. Here’s Daisy.”
“It’s so nice to see you sitting here, father,” said the girl, coming behind him, and resting her chin on his bald crown, while her plump arms went round his neck.
“Is it, my gal? That’s raight. Why, Daisy lass, what soft little arms thine are. Give us a kiss.”
Daisy leaned down and kissed him, and then stopped with her arms resting on his shoulders, keeping her face from confronting him; and so they remained for a few minutes, when a smile twinkled about the corners of the foreman’s lips and eyes as he said—
“Daisy, my gal, I’ve been watching the bees a bit.”
“Yes, father,” she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the smile was forced. “Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees.”
“I do, my bairn, I do. They’re just like so many workmen in a factory; but they don’t strike, my gal, they don’t strike.”
“But they swarm, father,” said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the conversation.
“Yes,” chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left shoulder. “Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that. They swarm, don’t they?”
“Yes, father.”
“And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?”
“Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them.”
“Yes, yes,” chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough cheek. “You’re raight, but it’s something more, Daisy: it’s the young ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves—all the young ones ’most do that some day.”
The tears rose to Daisy’s eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it tightly and gave it a kiss.
“There, there, my pet,” he said, tenderly, “I won’t tease you. I knew it would come some day all right enough, and I don’t mind. I only want my little lass to be happy.”
“Oh, father—father—father,” sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.
“Come, come, come, little woman,” he said, laughing; “thou mustn’t cry. Why, it’s all raight.” There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes. “Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean’t do no good: you may rain watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won’t come again. There—tut—tut—tut—you’ll have moother here directly, and she’ll be asking what’s wrong.”
Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying her eyes.
“Then, you are not cross with me, father?” faltered Daisy.
“Cross, my darling? not a bit,” said Joe, patting her hand again. “You shan’t disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan’t. Why, you’re fit to be a little queen, you are.”
Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill his pipe.
“Cross indeed! I should just think I hadn’t,” he exclaimed—“only with the women. Well, they’ll come round.”
But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier, just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar’s arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light, for—of course by accident—Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire, evidently not for the first time since the night when they were interrupted by Tom in the lane.
It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a stronger mastery over the girl’s heart.
“Then you will, Daisy, won’t you?” he whispered to her.
“No, no, Dick dear. Don’t ask me. Let me tell father all about it.”
“What?” he cried.
“Let me tell father all about it, and I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“My dear little Daisy, how well you are named,” he cried, playfully; and as he looked lovingly down upon her, the foolish girl began to compare him with the lover of her mother’s choice—a man who was nearly always blackened with his labours, and heavy and rough spoken, while here was Richard Glaire professing that he worshipped her, and looking, in her eyes, so handsome in his fashionably-cut blue coat with the rosebud in the button-hole, and wearing patent leather boots as tight as the lemon gloves upon his well-formed hands.
“I can’t help my name,” she said, coquettishly.
“I wouldn’t have it changed for the world, my little pet,” he whispered, playing with her dimpled chin; “only you are as fresh as a daisy.”
“What do you mean, Dick?” she said, nestling to him.
“Why you are so young and innocent. Look here, my darling: don’t you see how I’m placed? My mother wants me to marry Eve.”
“But you don’t really, really, really, care the least little bit for her, do you, Mr Richard?”
“‘Mr Richard!’” reproachfully.
“Dear Dick, then,” she whispered, colouring up, and glancing fondly at him, half ashamed though the while at her boldness.
“Of course I don’t love her. Haven’t I sworn a hundred times that I love only you, and that I want you to be my darling little wife?”
“Yes, yes,” said the girl, softly.
“Well, then, my darling, if you go and tell your father, the first thing he’ll do will be to go and tell my mother, and then there’ll be no end of a row.”
“But she loves you very much, Dick.”
“Worships me,” said Dick, complacently.
“Of course,” said the girl, softly; and her foolish little eyes seemed to say, “She couldn’t help it,” while she continued, “and she’d let you do as you like, Dick.”
“Well, but you see the devil of it is, Daisy, that I promised her I wouldn’t see you any more.”
“Why did you do that?” said the girl, sharply.
“To save rows—I hate a bother.”
“Richard, you were ashamed of me, and wouldn’t own me,” said Daisy, bursting into tears.
“Oh, what a silly, hard-hearted, cruel little blossom it is,” said Richard, trying to console her, but only to be pushed away. “All I did and said was to save bother, and not upset the old girl. That’s why I want it all kept quiet. Here, as I tell you, I could be waiting for you over at Chorley, we could pop into the mail as it came through, off up to London, be married by licence, and then the old folks would be in a bit of a temper for a week, and as pleased as Punch afterwards.”
“Oh, no, Richard, I couldn’t, couldn’t do that,” said the girl, panting with excitement.
“Yes, you could,” he said, “and come back after a trip to Paris, eh, Daisy? where you should have the run of the fashions. What would they all say when you came back a regular lady, and I took you to the house?”
“Oh, Dick, dear Dick, don’t ask me,” moaned the poor girl, whose young head was in a whirl. “I couldn’t—indeed I couldn’t be so wicked.”
“So wicked! no, of course not,” said Richard, derisively—“a wicked little creature. Oh, dear, what would become of you if you married Richard Glaire!”
“You’re teasing me,” she said, “and it’s very cruel of you.”
“Horribly,” said Richard. “But you will come, Daisy?”
“I couldn’t, I couldn’t,” faltered the girl.
“Yes, you could, you little goose.”
“Dick, my own handsome, brave Dick,” she whispered, “let me tell father.”
He drew back from her coldly.
“You want to be very obedient, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, dear Richard,” she said, looking at him appealingly.
“You set such a good example, Daisy, that I must be very good too.”
“Yes, dear,” she said, innocently.
“Yes,” he said, with a sneer; “so you go and tell your father like a good little child, and I’ll be a good boy, too, and go and tell my mother, and she’ll scold me and say I’ve been very naughty, and make me marry Eve.”
“Oh, Richard, Richard, how can you be so cruel?” cried the poor girl, reproachfully.
“It isn’t I; it’s you,” he said, smiling with satisfaction as he saw what a plaything the girl’s heart was in his hands. “Are you going to tell your father?”
“Oh, no, Dick, not if you say I mustn’t.”
“Well, that’s what I do say,” he exclaimed sharply.
“Very well, Dick,” she said, sadly.
“And look here, Daisy, my own little one,” he whispered, kissing her tear-wet face, “some day, when I ask you, it shall be as I say, eh?”
“Oh, Dick, darling, I’ll do anything you wish but that. Don’t ask me to run away.”
“Do you want to break off our match?” he said, bitterly.
“Oh, no—no:—no—no.”
“Do you want to make my home miserable?”
“You know I don’t, Richard.”
“Because, I tell you I know my mother will never consent to it unless she is forced.”
“But you are your own master now, Richard,” she pleaded.
“Not so much as you think for, my little woman. So come, promise me. I know you won’t break your word if you do promise.”
“No, Dick, never,” she said, earnestly; and if there had been any true love in the young fellow’s breast he would have been touched by the trusting, earnest reliance upon him that shone from her eyes as she looked up affectionately in his face.
“Then promise me, Daisy, dear,” he whispered; “it is for the good of both of us, and—Hang it all, there’s Slee.”
Daisy was sent off as we know, and the tears fell fast as she hastened home, feeling that love was very sweet, but that its roses had thorns that rankled and stung.
“Oh, Dick, Dick,” she sobbed as she went on, “I wish sometimes that I’d never seen you, for it is so hard not to do whatever you wish.”
She dried her eyes hastily as she neared home, and drew her breath a little more hardly as about a hundred yards from the gate she saw Tom Podmore, who looked at her firmly and steadily as they passed, and hardly responded to her nod.
“He knows where I’ve been. He knows where I’ve been,” whispered Daisy to herself as she hurried on; and she was quite right, for her conscious cheeks hoisted a couple of signal flags of the ruddiest hue—signals that poor Tom could read as well as if they had been written down in a code, and he ground his teeth as he turned and watched her.
“She’s such a good girl that any one might troost her,” he muttered, as he saw her go in at the gate, “or else I’d go and tell Joe all as I knows. But no, I couldn’t do that, for it would hurt her, just as it would if I was to half kill Dick Glaire. She’ll find him out some day perhaps—not as it matters to me though, for it’s all over now.”
He walked back, looking over the green fence as he passed, and Mrs Banks waved her hand to him from the window; but his eyes were too much occupied by the sight of Daisy leaning over her father, and he walked on so hurriedly that he nearly blundered up against a great stalwart figure coming the other way.